MELBOURNE—Margaret Court Arena has been in the headlines recently, for good reasons and bad. After its namesake’s recent comments about homosexuals, protests at the stadium were discussed, and there was even some talk about changing its name. After tonight’s disastrous ending to a classic five-setter between John Isner and David Nalbandian on that court, you might begin to believe the place is cursed.
On the contrary. Whatever you want to call it, the MCA is the heart of Melbourne Park. I didn't think the same thing last year, when I had been underwhelmed by the mid-sized amphitheatre. At the U.S. and French Opens, it's the secondary stadiums—Armstrong and the Grandstand in New York, Lenglen and the Bullring in Paris—that are far and away the best places on the grounds to see tennis. They’re more intimate than the towering central arenas, yet they have more atmosphere and better acoustics than any side court. The low, oval-shaped, well-worn MCA seemed generic, and a little past its sell-by date, by comparison.
It turns out that the Australian Open had been thinking along the same lines. This year officials unveiled a plan to revamp the MCA as part of a broader expansion plan for Melbourne Park. Now that it’s on the chopping block, of course, I’ve begun to see the charm of the place. The MCA sits in the shadow of Rod Laver Arena, but it has its advantages over that much more famous roofed venue. In Laver, you’re boxed in by high walls and a ceiling that’s always at least half-closed; you get the sky, but nothing else of the outside world. The consolation of a mediocre seat in MCA is that you’re high enough to see over its top—the walls end where the seats do—and across into the parks that surround the tennis facility. The atmosphere for today’s Isner-Nalbandian epic was deepened by the sight of trees being blown back and forth in the distance, and the sun setting behind them.
Americans in Oz at this time of year feel like we're stealing some of that sun; it should rightfully be winter for us. I felt like I was stealing a summer evening as well last night, when I stopped by a jammed—the court always seems to be jammed, but never overcrowded—MCA to catch the end of Jo-Wilfried Tsonga’s win over Dennis Istomin. Tsonga, along with his fellow flashy Frenchman Gael Monfils, has made himself a favorite on this court over the last few years, and he and Istomin entertained the crowd again on this night. It had all the makings of a classic summer night out: ice cream; young couples talking and not talking, but looking happy about it either way; humidity and the lethargy that it inspires—the place had the sleepy buzz that I associate with baseball games in July in the United States. The only difference were the seagulls that circled above. Next to me was a father and his daughter. She flipped through her souvenir program and asked him a string of questions, one of which was, “Dad, do tennis players hate each other when they play.” His answer: “Yes, I think they do.” I doubt you would get that response too often from a father in the U.S. these days.
